Chapter 5
By the morning, the rain had stopped, though gray clouds hung like dirty bedsheets, unmoving over the city.
Sarah and I bought her favorite cinnamon rolls from Mrs. Jonas’s bakery—Mary waved to us from the kitchen—and cheese from Bender’s shop and went for a long, pleasant walk across the bridge to St. James’s, where we found a bench and enjoyed our makeshift picnic, stopping to feed the swans and ducks with the scraps.
On our way back to my room, we paused on Waterloo Bridge.
The rain had washed away the bird droppings for a day, and we settled our forearms on the metal railing.
Under the low-hanging clouds, the Thames was daubed in grays with black and white flecks.
The river was at flood tide, high, half an hour from turning.
Four hours from now the mud larks would be on the south bank with their buckets, scrounging for bits of metal and wood by the light of handheld lamps.
The next bridge to the east was Blackfriars, where the great underground River Fleet emerged on the north bank, flowing into the Thames through a large semicircular opening.
As a child, looking at the papers over my father’s shoulder, I’d seen a cartoon of Old Man Fleet, shaking his fist in rage at us Londoners for burying him beneath roads and railway lines.
The thought of a powerful spirit dwelling silently underground had frightened me.
“You don’t have to walk me back,” Sarah said. “Unless you want to.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said, my eyes on a barge headed straight for a rowboat, whose two oarsmen were paddling furiously to get out of the way. “I’m meeting James for dinner over the river anyway.”
“What?” At the shock in her voice, I turned. A smile bloomed across her face. “Kit! That’s wonderful!”
“Why is it wonderful?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Because . . .” She studied my face. “Don’t you want to go?”
I didn’t answer at first. Did I? Didn’t I?
“Well, I’m glad you’re going,” Sarah said.
“Why?” I asked again.
“Because.” The river breeze blew strands of her fair hair into her face, and she tucked it behind her ears. “I want you to have some fun. You deserve to.”
“I suppose,” I said dubiously.
A slow smile dimpled her cheek, and she gave a sly sideways look. “I’m going to fix your hair. Come on.” She nipped her hand through my elbow and tugged. I groaned and made a show of rolling my eyes but let her drag me back to our room.
Mary wasn’t there, and Sarah pushed me into our one chair, then rustled through the drawers and took out a comb and brush, pins, and Mary’s hand mirror.
She brushed my hair until the knots from the wind were gone and the curls fell almost straight, then set to work, tugging and pinning. I tried not to wince.
When she finished, she handed me the mirror. “See? It’s pretty.”
I turned my head to one side and then the other to see the brown braids and coils. “It is,” I said. “Who taught you?”
“Betty. She’s Miss Clara’s maid, so she practices on me.”
“Well.” I handed the mirror back. “It doesn’t quite look like me, but I like it.”
“I like that it’s James.”
“You do, do you?” I returned.
“He’s handsome.”
“I suppose so.”
“And he’s kind.”
Something in her voice made me swivel to look at her, wondering if Sarah fancied him herself. “What makes you say so?”
She hesitated. “Don’t scowl when I tell you this.”
“Well, that’s never a good beginning.”
Sarah sat on Mary’s empty bed to face me. “One night, when you were gone somewhere, I was coming home from the market. There were three boys at the corner by Sawyer’s shop. They were teasing me, calling me ugly and a toad.”
“Little buggers.” I knew the corner, could imagine the three of them surrounding her, not letting her pass. “Who were they?”
She shrugged. “Ben Tucker and two of his friends. I don’t remember.
But James was nearby, and he grabbed Ben by his coat and pushed him against the wall.
Not overly hard, mind you, like he was showing off being older and bigger, but enough to put the wind out of Ben, making him gasp and cough.
James didn’t yell, just said if he ever caught them bothering me again, in any way, he’d flay them alive. They left me alone after that.”
“You never told me.” My voice held a note of accusation.
“Because I knew you’d scowl over it, like you’re doing now.”
I smoothed my expression. “When was this?”
She considered. “Around four years ago. Before he went to prison.”
“That was kind of him,” I admitted.
Sarah looked at me with perplexity. “I thought you liked him.”
“Well, we’ve always been . . . friends, but he’s still a Castle man,” I replied, thinking of the calluses on his hands. “God only knows what he’s still mixed up in.”
The stuffing inside the cotton mattress ticking rustled as Sarah rose and put the comb, brush, extra pins, and mirror back in the drawer with a small sigh.
“We should go,” I said. “Mary and Sid’ll be waiting.”
It being a Sunday afternoon, the taproom was subdued. Mary was already at a table, with a pot of tea and a basket of rolls. Sid detached himself from a group of boys scrapping over a card game and joined us.
Mary knew not to mention Josie, but Sid had no such restraint.
“Did you hear? Josie’s trial’s likely this week.” His brown eyes were wide as he chewed a roll. “Ow!” He stared at Mary, who had kicked him under the table.
Mary glowered. “Do you even think before you open your gob?”
Sarah swiveled toward me. “Josie was arrested?”
“Cor, don’t you know nothing?” Sid asked. “Happened yesterday.”
Sarah’s mouth tightened but she said nothing as Jane set a plate of cheese in front of us.
“Amelia says she’s taking care of it,” I said as Jane left.
“I heard she couldn’t,” said the irrepressible Sid. “Bribe didn’t work. Too much in her pockets.” He turned to Mary. “And don’t kick me again, neither. She’s going to hear from somebody. She ain’t a baby.”
Mary leaned across the table toward Sarah, her blue eyes sympathetic. “I’m not one to talk ill of people, but Josie wasn’t being careful. She ignored all Bea’s warnings.”
I shot her a grateful look for trying, but Sarah’s pursed mouth told me what she thought of me keeping the arrest from her.
Mary took a bakery box from beside her on the bench, opening it to reveal an iced pound cake.
She cut the slices and put them on plates.
Delicious as it was, it didn’t sweeten anyone’s temper.
Sarah remained stubbornly subdued, Sid sulked, and after a few attempts at conversation, even Mary gave up.
Afterward, we all slid out from the benches, relieved.
Sarah started for the front door, and I rolled my eyes at Mary. Her look wished me luck.
We weren’t five steps across the cobbles before Sarah burst out, “Why didn’t you tell me? For God’s sake, Kit!”
“To what end?” I asked. “You’ll just worry.”
“Of course I will! How did it happen?”
I told her everything Bea had said, concluding, “Josie was my jenny once, and Mary’s right. She’s careless. I’m sorry she was caught, but Bea warned her.” I shoved my hands into my pockets against the river’s evening damp. “And you know how I am. One whiff of danger and I leave off.”
“I know,” she said. “But still, Kit.”
We walked to the back of Willits House in silence. At the black wrought iron gate atop the steps to the servants’ entrance, she said softly, “I wish you’d just stop.”
I’d known it was coming. It wasn’t the first time.
“I think there’s part of you that likes the trickery of—”
“Believe me, I don’t.”
She drew back at the harsh note in my voice.
“Are you . . . afraid?” she asked, as if it had occurred to her for the first time.
My hands curled into fists inside my coat pockets. Sarah had no idea the cost of rent if the ring wasn’t paying, not to mention food, clothing, shoes, sundries, doctors and medicines—
“Of course I am,” I said quietly. Her face lit with hope. “But I can’t stop, Sarah. Not yet. I only work for Mr. Ardle once a week and at the dress shop when Emma needs me. It isn’t enough.”
She looked crestfallen. “Not even with my wages?”
I shook my head. “I’ve told you I’m not against stopping. When I’ve enough to keep us for—say—a year, we’ll talk about it.”
She looked as if she didn’t believe me.
“I promise.”
Her shoulders slumped with a despondency that wrung my heart.
But there was nothing more I could say; I wouldn’t lie to her.
I hugged her goodbye and watched her descend the brick steps and knock.
A metal bolt scraped, and the door swung inward.
She gave one final look and vanished, the door shutting with a solid thunk.
I fastened the latch on the black iron gate, then started for the Silver Plover, my spirits an unpleasant tangle of worry and regret, making it impossible to enjoy the walk down Fleet Street in the cool August air.
The rain had settled the dust and smoke, and the lamps glowed like golden orbs, gilding the cobblestones.
At the corner, a costermonger rattled a pan of chestnuts over the coals, the rich nutty scent briefly overcoming the bitterness of burning coal.
The churches hadn’t yet struck seven when I spotted the pub’s painted sign hanging aloft, but James was there standing underneath it, his hands in his coat pockets, surveying the street with a pleased air as if the carriages and cabs, the people with their parcels, and the gasman lighting the lamps with his long stick weren’t things he’d seen hundreds of times before.
With some effort, I put aside my unsettled feelings as I reached him.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
I gave him a smile, and he put a hand on the doorknob and paused. “Your hair looks different. It’s pretty.”
I’d already forgotten. I touched the braids. “Sarah did it. She insisted.”
He pulled the door open, and we stepped inside.